I'm sitting on the couch next to the snoring dogs, wearing the sweater I've just finished knitting. It's warm, but sadly a little scratchy. In 2 hours I plan to walk to Magdalen Bridge and listen to the bells ring out the old year and ring in the new. It's half an hour of ringing on each side of midnight. This will be a new way of celebrating for me, and I'm looking forward to it. For the past several years, I've tended to use the New Year as a time of contemplation, often followed by bedtime before the stroke of midnight, sometimes not even waking to the nearby sounds of celebration. In other words, I've found myself no longer going to parties on New Year's Eve.
There was actually only a short time frame, in my 20s and early 30s, when I had friends who threw parties. Before then, New Years' was a family celebration: we'd pull together some snacks and play whist (and there were some memorable battles.) Sometimes someone would go off to a party, but usually we were all at home when the ball dropped in Times Square, viewed from the television. We'd open the door and listen to the remote clang of beaten pots and pans and the vague whoops and whistles and squawker horns, transformed by distance into an echo of the celebration happening at some neighborhood house. And then we'd shut the door and go to bed.
I do remember the year I was party-hopping. Midnight found me in my own neighborhood, dancing to Prince. The year was 1999, and so was the song. I was 40, on the cusp of some major changes, both for me and for the country. 9/11 and my father's death would follow in quick succession 2 years later, and by my mid-40s I'd be married, a decision that still has me baffled.
2 years ago, G and I were walking down a London street because the bus route was cordoned off for the city celebration. We stopped at a neighborhood bar and put on their pointy shiny cardboard hats, but at midnight we were home watching fireworks on TV, with the Millennial Eye and Big Ben in the background. This year, G is attending an ugly sweater party with his new love, and I marvel at how he and our friendship have changed. I can't imagine him deliberately wearing an ugly sweater or doing something so traditionally banal. I hope it makes him happy.
Meanwhile, I think about the past several months. I'm trying to make sense of the past year and prepare for the next, emotionally. Logistically, I'm set. I have 4 months left of my experiment, and then 9 months living yet another 40-hour work week, the volunteer librarian gig at Ghost Ranch. I wonder if I will be ready for it, after a year spent almost exclusively co-existing with dogs and cats. I have found myself becoming more and more reclusive, and happily so. I like the way a routine develops, based on the personalities of the animals, their home, and the place. In Ireland, I barely left the house. Surrounded by green fields and changeable skies, I sat in the windowed sun room writing and reading, with frequent interruptions from the dogs. In Bath, I spent the morning and early afternoon writing, followed by an exploratory walk and an evening at home, listening to an audio-book. In Tavistock, the weather and my nerve determined whether I would get in the car and explore the moors, or stay in the house, knitting and watching bad TV.
Still, wherever I was, whatever I did, I was alone. Other than a few days with my cousins and the two weeks back in the States, my deepest interactions have been virtual ones: emails, Facebook posts, this blog, texts with G and P and my cousins. Even the 2 months in Claremont were solitary, except for the Vocal Forum and the Sunday choir. I was reveling in the power to do precisely what I wanted to do, but I was also overwhelmed by the sheer variety of the experiences available to me. My choice to stay home with the pets is comprehensible in that light, but so is the self-flagellation. I often feel that I am wasting my time, not exploring the possibilities. I can write and read and knit anywhere. What is the point of this?
The questions really hit me when I returned to England after 2 weeks in the States. I find that I am wistful, missing my friends and family. While I'm off lazing around and dipping into other people's lives, babies are being born, people are getting ill, some are coupling, some are separating. Life is happening, and I'm watching from a distance. As with New Years Eve, I am merely a witness to the sounds of other people's celebrations. Other people's lives are muffled, and virtual communication offers little clarity. They could be anywhere, I could be anywhere. I don't need to be in Oxford to send a Christmas card or Skype with my aunt. So, what am I getting from my 3 weeks here? Some museum trips, some holiday food, some walks along the Thames. The Christchurch concert. An Anglican Christmas service. The sighting the tree under which fictional Harriet Vane stood with her fictional admirer. It's a mix of literary references and tourist must-dos. My activities and observations are colored by things I've read, by the mythology of Oxford. I love this city, but I find myself wishing I had discovered it as a scholar, not as a dilettante.
Maybe it was the third degree at the airport that started this. While I don't think I've been put on the terrorist watch list, I do understand why my behavior gave the immigration gent pause. I was here for 3 months, went back to the States for 2 weeks, and came back to the UK for another 5 weeks. I give my cousin as my address, but in reality he's just a place to stay between sits, and a place to stash extra stuff. All of this is perplexing to any onlooker. I'm not working, and I'm not vacationing. I'm not an immigrant or a refugee, but the lack of any purpose baffled the interrogator. He asked if I had money, and when I said yes, he asked if I had proof of it. I offered my credit card and he said, "That just shows you are borrowing money." Well, yes. But how do I prove that I have money upon which I can live for the next 5 weeks? Even a bank statement is subject to daily, nay hourly, change. And what's the problem? If I run out of money, it's my own problem, not his, isn't it? My cousin later clarified the situation: they think I'm trying to reset the clock and avoid the 6-month visiting restriction.
I'm relieved to find a reason for the questions, but Customs' doubts about me start up a series of questions in my own mind. Can I truly afford this? Why am I here, what am I doing, what will I be doing 2 years hence? Meanwhile, my supportive friends say that downtime is important too. They suggest I not work so hard to make sense of this. Asking for an explanation will just keep me from experiencing the moment. It's awesome that I am doing this, they insist, and I am an inspiration.
That is all very well, but I still have to find an answer that will work for customs and immigration. So I may as well try to find one for myself.
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